


answer me

by aelescribe



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Richie Tozier Has A Type, This time Eddie waits for Richie, a mix of movie canon/book canon/2010 script, but in this house we RESPECT steve, reddie is endgame, the real takeaway is 2010 script is king and i love making the main story about a minor character, we RESPECT the 2010 script that said richie and steve were dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:06:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelescribe/pseuds/aelescribe
Summary: [I’m remembering stuff, now! Never too late, right? Anyway, hindsight is twenty-twenty, so I figured I should apologize. Sorry for all the trouble. You’re a great guy, for an asshole. Love ya, Steve. Don’t look for me. I won’t be coming back.]Richie leaves a voicemail. Steve tries picks up the pieces.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Steve Covall/Richie Tozier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 89





	answer me

Steve was panicking.

Richie bombing his last show was bad enough. People could expect that of him--with such low bar material, why should he care about his audience? Outlets were latching onto substance abuse, which he could work with. 

Richie had nerves when it came to live performance, he had panic attacks in interviews almost regularly that were only regulated by his inherent love for performing and laughter. And lots of alcohol. Or drugs. Okay, yeah, the outlets weren’t too far off with the idea that Richie Tozier was off on some bender. But he _saw_ Richie.

Bent over the railing, vomit clinging to his lips, baby blues glassed over. This was different. 

Steve threatened to drop Richie if he didn’t get a therapist but it didn’t stick. There was something always bubbling under the lid, aching to burst out. Whatever that phone call was did it. Accomplished what Steve had tried and failed so many times, breaking down Richie’s defenses and reducing him to a vulnerable, shaking mess.

Not that Steve wanted to goad Richie into a complete psychotic breakdown. He just wanted Richie to show he cared, a little, about _anything_.

They slept in their own rooms that night, Steve too fed up to even _look_ at Richie without blowing up. He wondered if he would ever actually drop Richie. He had plenty of other clients that made as much, if not more, money. But something kept him coming back. 

Steve was a person that liked order and liked fixing things. Steve liked helping people. If he had the patience for med school, that would’ve been his first choice. Business worked, and law sufficed. After falling into a stage management, he found a unique call for his talents. Anyone who’s anybody in the entertainment industry needs someone like him, and it’s nice being needed. 

In that regard, Richie was the perfect pet project, a veritable heaven sent vision that would allow Steve to tinker and and prod him in the right direction, and Steve would stand well in his shadow and smile for credit. 

Richie’s constant crises kept Steve coming back. Richie had someone willing to help him and Steve had someone he could wrestle into being helped. But expending all of the effort was getting exhausting. 

Still, he wasn’t afraid of Richie actually doing something dangerous or crazy, and he’d set his limits. Richie just needed attention. He needed Steve to bail him out, remind him that there was still someone out there who gave a shit, no matter how badly he fucked up. 

So when Richie didn’t join him for breakfast, he figured he was still sulking, and Steve let him sleep it off. Gave him plenty of time for damage control. If Richie needed something, he would come crawling.

When it got into late afternoon, quotes sent, phone calls returned, and a majority of his emails answered, Steve became concerned. He hadn’t gotten a text from Richie, seen him shuffle towards the hotel bar, or slump across from Steve to gripe in person.

Odd. Steve capped his pen on some paperwork for the venue and shuffled everything into his briefcase. On few occasions, Richie was so inconsolable Steve would resort to dragging him out of bed. Or letting Richie drag him into bed. 

That was another factor.

Steve remembers dozens of hotels, swimming in Richie’s eyes, giving into his broad shoulders. A bizarre moment of weakness that he couldn’t help repeat. September had begun and he chased the cold away under Richie’s covers one too many times. It was only a few nights ago, now, when the solitary walk to seemed to stretch the hallway to miles in front of him.

"I'm going back to my room.”

Richie startled at the yellow blinking in darkness before realizing it was only the numbers on the hotel alarm clock. "It's two in the morning," he finally got out in a scratchy voice.

He light flipped on and Richie groaned into the pillow, far too big and far too soft for Steve’s liking. He was barely there, sinking right through the bed. 

"I'm clearly not going to get any sleep here." Steve yanked his pants back on. Richie crawled to the edge of the bed and let his legs dangle down. He tried to stop Steve from buttoning his dress shirt, chasing each finger trying to catch buttons. 

Steve was enough of a grouch without being sleep deprived and to be truthful, Richie would be grateful for his departure, if he wasn't so sure he'd roll over and die without anyone at his side. Not anyone, but someone. Not Steve, but almost. 

That was something bitter he couldn’t quite wrap his head around yet. Therefore, better to get out while he still could. Before this came crashing down on them like one of Richie’s nightmares he insisted he never had. 

"What, come on, come back to bed." Richie pleaded. Steve softened at the thin reed of his voice. "I don't want to do anything, I just want you here. Seriously. Please."

He wanted to believe that. "I really shouldn't be here in the first place." Regret creased Steve’s brow, battling Richie’s puppy dog face. How did this idiot manage to look _cute_ , forty years old with too much thrumming in his veins? Getting involved with a client was a mistake, and getting involved with Richie was even worse. Steve patted his cheek, economically affectionate. 

Richie tucked the back of Steve's dress shirt into his pants, hands settling on his lower back. "Isn't fun sneaking around with a bad boy? Afraid to disappoint your corporate parents?"

"It amazes me how endearingly cheesy you are." Richie rubbed his thumbs just under the waistband of his pants, casual but careful. Another rare side of Richie only Steve was permitted to see, but it usually appeared in drowsiness, desperation, or drugged states. When he was given the chance, Richie was surprisingly tactile. "I didn't want to do this until the tour ended, but what the hell. You know we can't keep seeing each other, Rich, and _sneaking around_ isn't helping."

"I'm careful, _sooo_ why's it matter?" Richie’s gaze skirted across the room. Steve worked hard to not be bothered by Richie’s ignorance--worked even harder not to show it on the rare occasion he allowed it to bother him. 

"It matters to me because it's unprofessional. It matters to you because you're chicken shit." He removed Richie's hands from his hips and squeezed, once, letting them fall back in his lap. 

Richie squinted in the lamp light. "Come again?"

"I don't want to waste my time on someone who isn't going to be true to themselves," Steve finally said. 

"You self-righteous little windbag."

Steve laughed. "Fine. But you can’t even call me your boyfriend after _three years_ of sleeping together, you freak out if I try and kiss you, you’re paranoid as all hell in _general_ … I’m tired of feeling like your dirty little secret--” Richie inhaled sharply, “--and that may be enough for you, but I expect more. Honesty, for one. And I can’t keep justifying spending so much time with you when you don’t accrue the same revenue my other clients do."

Richie floundered, swallowing thickly around the word that's taunted him for the better part of twenty years. Then, heard Steve again. What sells? "Wait, are you breaking up with me or quitting as my agent?"

"We aren’t breaking up. We aren’t _together_ , remember?” His use of air quotes made Richie wince. “And that depends on how well this tour goes." It was going fine, but it wasn’t _well_. Richie wasn’t a salesman it was increasingly obvious he was tired of the general material he was stuck with. It was the comedy scene’s worst kept secret.

"I _want_ to write my own shit, Steve, I've tried!" Richie fumbled for his glasses so he could glare him down properly. 

Steve wasn’t ignorant of Richie’s efforts but they only went so far. Therefore, Steve’s efforts were allowed to hit the wall. They fell up short for each other, some kind of understanding that they were as close to fulfilling those needs as they could get. They were bandaids, but Richie kept getting closer and closer to slicing an artery. Steve wouldn’t know what to do when it hit. 

Steve didn’t care whether or not Richie used a ghostwriter or wrote his own material as long as it sold. What angered him was the fluctuation, as if Richie was entirely incapable of making the decision for himself, and only put in enough effort to make Steve believe he was changing. Writing his own material, willing to gaze at Steve in public, willing to let them be seen as together.

But he was a coward. Maybe it was Steve’s fault for getting his own hopes up, expecting too much of Richie, when he knew he couldn’t provide… whatever it was that Richie needed. The ends of the compass needle stretched further and further away from each other.

Steve couldn’t make Richie come out if he didn’t want to, and he couldn’t stop the intense nightmares he had, and he couldn’t _help_ what Richie needed to help about himself. He’d given Richie room, given him time, but enough was enough.

"That requires you to be truthful. That requires vulnerability. You can’t--you _refuse_ to talk about us, or any aspect of your personal life--”

“I don’t _have_ a personal life,” Richie snapped.

“And so you blame other people for inventing something for you! You wanna lock yourself in the closet forever? You wanna be miserable? Go ahead. But I won't. So until you can get over… _this_ , you’re stuck with a ghostwriter and it’s not because of _me._ It’s because you _hate yourself_ to the point of complete dysfunction.”

Silence thickened the room and Steve stuffed himself into his shoes, sighing against the wall. Richie sat on the bed, hands twitching together, looking thoroughly distressed, then finally snapped, “Talk about honesty, Steve finally gets off a good one.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, Rich, I can’t be in a relationship with you, it’s not _professional_ , but if you say so! Sure, Rich, I’ll drop stage managing to be your agent and complain about it forever because I have no experience. Whatever _you_ want. Sure, Rich, I’ll say yes to every fucking thing that comes out of your mouth and suffer in silence like the perfect martyr. Gimme a fucking break, man. _You’re_ the one who turned our relationship into a professional obligation.”

Steve wet his lips. “I’m here for you, Rich. I’m your agent. Literally your yes man. I get things done.”

“You don’t need to tell me what you think I want to hear.” Richie rubbed his eyes. “I don’t want to hear me, I just want you--god. This was such a fucking mistake.” _Them. Us._

Steve swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t get shy now. Steve, you’re really good at talking about what my shit is, but what is your _deal_ ? We don’t do this, y’know. Everyone gives me shit but you. And now _you_ wanna give me shit?”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he repeated. He meant it. And in a rare moment of weakness, Steve gave into some tender impulse and looped his arms around Richie’s neck and rubbed his back. Richie captured Steve’s slight frame in his solid grip and it almost knocked the wind out of him. Steve always had to know what to say, so he comforted Richie, “That’s it, buddy, come on. It’s okay.”

“I don’t wanna go back to sleep,” Richie groaned.

“You need to try,” Steve encouraged. He reached into the nightstand drawer for his go bag and fished out a bottle of Ambien he kept on hand because of Richie’s frequent insomnia. 

“It’s not gonna help. I’m so tired, Steve.” Richie rubbed his face into Steve’s midsection, trying to brush away tears. “I never even fucking remember these dreams and I’ve tried so hard but I-I-I _can’t_ and I know what’s missing is important, but I just know it’s missing and I can’t _find_ it.”

“Sshhh, I know, bud, I know,” Steve crooned. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anyone who did. Richie only needed to hear he did. And Steve gave it to him because Richie would die without it. Steve could keep him steady for a while. But he felt they were starting over some precipice now. It was getting too late to come back. Gravity was kicking in.

It started the same and woke Steve often. Richie, head tossed back, grunting up. Hands grasping the bedsheets. His throat pitched back until blue veins strained and he began to scream. Nonsense. Whimpering. Steve calmed him until he came back. Never tried to wake him in the middle of it--that earned him a black eye once that made Richie cry even harder. 

“You’re really knocking me for a loop tonight, Stevel Knievel.” Richie angrily dried his eyes and put his wall back up, pulling back to face Steve. Pulling away, always away. Or maybe Steve is the one always out of reach. “I’m sorry.”

Steve huffed a breath through his nose. “I’m saying this as a professional and a _friend_ , Rich: get it together.”

“Okay.” Richie toed the carpet. “You’re the one that wanted to talk about our feelings, like some sap.”

“Like some queer,” Steve snorted, and then watched all color drain from Richie’s face. Being younger than Richie was good for sex and bad for conversation. Steve had less hang ups in general, specifically with terminology. He kissed Richie, coaxing him back. “Sorry. Forgot.”

“It’s okay,” Richie lied, letting Steve part his lips with his tongue, chasing forgiveness. Steve responded well to Richie’s big hands framing his hips, the little grunts and sighs he let out through his nose. It was the cloud of emotions stifling Richie that left Steve baffled. He pushed his positive attitude harder, pushing past any lingering doubt or feelings otherwise.

“Gonna try and get some sleep? Be well rested for me tomorrow?” He rattled the bottle and left it on Richie’s bedside. Richie blinked, numb and slow, but eventually nodded. “Attaboy.” 

Now he stood at the door of Richie’s hotel room and felt _shy_ , of all things, that conversation flooding back to him. They never picked up, though Steve assumed it would catapult into his tirade about Richie’s irresponsibility that would escalate in Richie firing him and they would make up at a hotel a week later. Like clockwork. The physical was easy. The emotional? Well.

“Rich, I know you’re not sleeping, so come answer the door. We need to talk.” Courtesy of thirty seconds and a few more knocks before he swung the door wide to… a pristine room. The comforter folded down, white sheets steamed to the bed. No evidence anyone had checked in. 

Steve looked at the door number again to make sure it was right, even though he knew it was. He peeked into the bathroom. Empty. Swept back the shower curtain. Emptier still. Steve checked his own room, also devoid of Richie’s presence. He hurried down to the front desk and when the attendant kindly informed him Mr. Tozier had checked out, Steve threatened to faint and instead, stifled it into his handkerchief and thanked the nice man.

Okay. Sometimes Richie did stupid things and fucked off. But a horrible feeling took hold of Steve. Richie, swaying, weak, yet something so clear in his eyes Steve could never have seen it coming. He knew he couldn’t go to the next venue and meet Richie there. He was _gone_.

Suddenly, a voicemail notification popped up, and he cursed himself for missing the call. He listened. Heavy breathing. Then, 

_[Hey Steve, I think this is it. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t blame you or anything, but you can blame me. You’re probably right. You usually are. I’m just a fucking coward. But I have to do this. I have to go. It’s a high school reunion. But Richie, you never talk about high school! Sounds dumb, but it’s the truth. The truth is dumber than fiction._ _Fuck, shouldn’t have… it’s whatever. And uh, I know I don’t say it enough, and we aren’t… I know we aren’t_ good _for each other, still, but you’re hot and young and you’ve got a great ass. You’ll find someone who can say--do--_ be _this shit without having a panic attack, y’know? You deserve better than that._

_I shouldn’t say it, but I will, I love you. I do. You should never have put up with my shit, man, but you fucking did. I mean, you didn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. I’m sorry. I’m going home. I made a promise. Stick with the coke bender disappearance, it’s mysterious in a sexy way. Good clout. Put my face on a milk carton… Heh. Put up a fucking billboard, for all I care, a big RICHIE TOZIER IS MISSING sign in all caps. Wow… yeah. Huhhhhhhhhhffffffffuck fuck_ fuck! _Sorry, started swerving there for a sec. Thought I was gonna hurl. Where uh, okay, where was I? You probably won’t see me again. Uh, yeah. I’m rambling, I’m so fucking scaaa--ooohhhhh, but I’m remembering stuff, now! So that’s cool. Never too late, right?_

_Anyway, hindsight is twenty-twenty, so I figured I should apologize. Sorry for all the trouble. You’re a great guy, for an asshole. Love ya, Steve. Don’t look for me. I won’t be coming back.]_

In all other accounts, Steve would listen to Richie. He would wait it out, wait for Richie to come crawling back to him. He would wait for the go ahead, and absolve Richie of whatever sin he committed. He would say, _Yes, Richie, I’ll stay here and wait for you to get back_.

Steve did not do that.

Shaking, he left Richie his own voicemail.

[ _Hi, this is Richie Tozier!_ ] 

BEEP. 

_Richie if you don’t call me back right now, this is_ so _over. Reno, us, our entire personal and professional relationship. You have no right to screw me over like this so whatever it is, get over it. Your ass is on the line_.

[ _I can’t come to the phone right now,_ ]

BEEP.

_I know you’re probably mad at me from the other night, but you’re only pissed because you know I’m right. It’s not my job to be your therapist. I’m your friend, I’ve always helped you out, but I can’t do that if you don’t help yourself._

[ _I’m too busy brightening dreary lives with my comedy._ ]

BEEP.

_I’m not going to text you, you pick up your phone, Tozier. You have a contract. What are you going to throw all this away for? When the fuck is it gonna be enough, Richie? None of this is ever enough for you, is it? Newsflash, you aren’t the only one who’s miserable._

[ _But if you have something that urgently requires my attention_ ,]

BEEP.

_Rich don’t do anything stupid. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I don’t know how to help, Rich, I really don’t. What am I supposed to do when you never talk to me? I know this shit isn’t your fault but you need to act like a grown up._

[ _get in contact with my agent, Steve Covall. He lives for this shit._ ]

BEEP.

_Call me back. Please stay safe._

[ _Okay, byeeee!_ ]

BEEP.

That’s how Steve Covall found himself speeding to Derry three days later. He tied up as many ends as he could, put on strong blinders, and fucked off to Maine. He was in so much shit, but when he explained to his boss that _Richie probably_ would _kill himself if he wasn’t found_ , she was much more willing to let him go. 

It was insane. _He_ was insane. Richie _made him_ insane. He was going to find him and give him a piece of his mind. Tracking Richie’s phone was easy, but that’s not where it ended. Something possessed him and sped his body against his will down to Maine: Adrian Mellon. He read the article in the parking lot of a gas station and dropped his phone, breaking down on lonely cement.

It was night when he finally arrived. As he waited for an eternity at a stoplight, Steve took in his surroundings. It seemed like any old town, a musty turtle creek leading him in, a weathered bridge with scratched posts, and shanty buildings staggering into the twentieth century. 

The Derry welcoming sign barely visible by headlight made him shiver. Derry didn’t welcome Adrian Mellon or Don Hagarty. Certainly not Steve.

Not Richie, either.

Suddenly Steve thought to the twitching nervousness anytime Steve even uttered _gay_ or _queer_. How Richie couldn’t meet his eyes, laughed too loudly and put up a strong front anytime Steve attempted to show intimacy in public. It hurt Steve to be denied so strongly and frequently. 

But with blood stinking the air, fake small town smiles… No wonder. Steve grew up in San Francisco. Last week, a man was beaten to death in _these streets_ for being with his boyfriend. Something stung. He tried to shove it down, but it still choked him when he pulled up to the Derry General Hospital’s intensive care unit. This is where Richie was? He sped inside.

“Steve Covall, here to see Richie Tozier,” he demanded at the front desk. 

“One moment, Mr. Covall,” A nurse, her name tag reading Elle, paused him with a staying hand. 

He turned his ringer on and off impatiently, looking for something to fidget with. The waiting room was surprisingly filthy, mud and grime tracked on the floor. Steve again wondered what kind of tragedy happened in Derry on a daily basis. 

When the nurse finally returned, she said, “Mr. Covall, there’s currently a wait and he’s unconscious at the moment. Unless it’s urgent, I’ll have to ask you to wait until his--”

“I’m his husband,” Steve blurted. Fuck. “I mean, boyfriend. I’m his--I’m his.”

Elle frowned. “Uh--”

“Is there a problem?” Steve redirected quickly, rising to his temper.

“No, no, that’s not it, Mr. Covall,” Elle assured, pale and nervous. She looked over his shoulder. “They aren’t… I thought… I’m sorry, I mistook you for someone else. He’s not awake, but you’re welcome to see him. He’s in room three-forty.”

The nurse didn’t seem truly bothered by Steve’s presence or his proclamation of closeness to Richie, only confused. The back of his neck prickled sharply but he let it go. Richie. Focus on Richie.

“As I understand it, there was an accident with one of Derry’s old, abandoned houses. Mr. Tozier was trapped inside. Concussion, bruised ribs...” She kept talking but Steve tuned out her words. He still felt tingling in the back of his neck. Some static paralyzing him. His gaze travelled to Richie’s room down the hall. “He hasn’t been lucid, he’s lucky he’s even in this kind of shape. His friends brought him here directly after the house collapsed. They’ve been taking good care of him.”

“I’m glad,” Steve deadpanned. Then, he thought to Richie’s rambling over the phone. “Who are these friends? I’d love to thank them.”

The nurse looked increasingly uncomfortable, but she handled Steve gracefully, “His friends who brought him here. I have their names and contact information, but they should be back soon.” The static turned into the slow _beep_ of a heart monitor. Steve could hear the tinny voicemail ringing in his head.

_Never too late, right?_

His feet moved on their own accord, dragging him unwillingly down the hall to Richie’s room. Steve sunk into the stiff chair already pressed against Richie’s bedside and listened to the heart monitor. Summoned all his courage to look at Richie.

BEEP.

His face was clean, but marred with scratches and abrasions, bandages taut across his forehead. His broken glasses were folded on the table next to him. His arms were muddied with purple and yellow bruises, sharp against his pale skin. His shoulders didn’t seem so broad sinking into the hospital bed. His nose was wrapped and he caught a glimpse of some binding on his chest, beneath the neck of his hospital gown.

“What the fuck, Rich?” 

BEEP.

This is why you don’t get emotionally involved with a client.

This is why he and Richie especially--

Should never have--

Fuck, he couldn’t breathe, and clutched his chest. Richie’s silence brought Steve to his knees. He clutched the itchy blanket on the bed, afraid of gripping Richie’s hand too tightly. “You’ve got my attention, Rich,” Steve whispered. As if this is what they both wanted.

He folded his hand over Richie’s, eventually, and gave it a tender squeeze. Now was time to be brave. Steve could do that, brave and gentle, until he could usher Richie out under his shoulder and figured out what to do under palm shade.

BEEP.

Richie groaned suddenly on the bed, low and unsupported. His hand squeezed feebly back. “Rich?” Steve shot to attention. Richie blinked blearily for a few minutes and Steve just _watched_ him come to life, caressing his knuckles, something he was unused to, but it seemed like something Richie would like or like to do.

His eyes darted around the hospital room unevenly, the motion itself making him dizzy. His head lolled forward and Steve tipped his chin up, putting him back against the pillows until his head stilled. He dared not breathe, waiting until Richie settled on him.

“That’s it buddy, that’s it…” he murmured, hands hovering uncertainly, chest inches from Richie’s. 

BEEP. 

Richie blinked again and parted his lips to speak. “Hi.”

“There he is,” Steve choked. “That’s my boy. Hey, Rich, you had me scared shitless. Jeez.”

A slow but sure smile crept across Richie’s face, testing its allowance, until he was beaming. “Eds.”

BEEP.

Steve laughed. “You’re really out of it, huh, bud? What kinda meds have they got you on?” 

“Eddie?” Richie asked, less certain. His face fell and he raised a hand to rub his eyes, a child rousing himself from sleepy confusion. And how _Richie_ , fingers curled into fists, ready to defend. 

“Steve, buddy, Steve Covall,” he reminded him gently. Steve dealt with his fair share of trauma in the hospital, but it usually stemmed from drugs and alcohol, not intense physical injuries. “I’m your agent.”

“Uh-huh,” Richie nodded, then winced, like it hurt his head. His face was foggy. “The crackhouse fell down.”

“I heard,” Steve hummed. “But you didn’t come to Derry just to get crushed by falling beams, right?”

“I came to Derry for… Eddie? Is he okay…? Where’s everyone else? Stan?” Steve pursed his lips and Richie became more anxious.

Steve had no idea who these people were or how to answer him. "I just got here, Rich--"

“Oh fuck, they’re dead aren’t they? I _know_ they’re dead I _knew_ it it’s my fault it’s my fault It killed them It killed them shit, _I_ killed them--”

“Rich, slow down, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve cautioned. Richie’s words devolved into nonsense and before he was hyperventilating, Steve called the nurse back into the room. He quickly became hysterical, reminiscent of the nightmares Steve caught him having, names and phrases that just didn’t make _sense_.

“Eddie,” he begged. Steve wanted to know _who_ this was, to have Richie utter the name with such reverence when Steve had never in his life heard Richie say it before today.

“Mr. Kaspbrak will be back soon,” Elle soothed, smoothing his bed down. “He was already treated for his injuries and discharged. You’ve got good friends, Mr. Tozier, but they were stinking up the waiting room and there was only so much we could do.” Her calm frankness seemed to do wonders for Richie, and he settled. “I’ll leave you and your, uh, husband, for now, and let you know when your friends get back.”

“Thanks,” Richie said numbly and reached for his glasses. Then, as she was leaving, sprang to life, “My _what_?”

“Hey, Rich, still here,” Steve raised a hand, trying to brush away his earlier slip. _Husband_ , a distant, cool thought numbing his forehead.

“Steve,” he said, and fog cleared out from the blue. “Did she sedate me? ‘Cause I have to be fucking _high_ right now to see you sitting there.” 

“I’m really here and really confused,” Steve replied, shrugging his hands.

“You’re pissed,” Richie corrected.

“Now that you mention it, yeah, I _am_ pissed, Rich.”

Richie just stared at him with unprecedented focus, fragmented through the right lense of his glasses. There was an intense scrutiny that Steve shrank away from. He learned early in life to puff up his chest and make himself the biggest and baddest in the room if he wanted to get out unscathed. He resented being made little. 

Richie wasn’t quite doing that. Rather, some incredibly insight had propelled him into something grand that Steve never thought Richie could achieve. Some clarity, some calm, some _thing_ so small had changed him so completely and Richie seemed to realize it too and could not tear his eyes away from Steve.

Something invisible and imperticible had changed Richie completely and it wasn’t the wounded trappings of the hospital shrouding his appearance. Something lit him from within, something that Steve couldn’t recognize.

His heart thudded in his chest like _he_ was waking up and. 

“Sorry,” Richie said, like he _knew_. 

Steve catapulted through time to some soundstage in Nevada where he was berating a PA on his cable winding technique ( _Give me some tie line, you asshole, do I have to do everything myself around here_ ?) and saw Richie. Stage management was entirely overwhelming and thankless and Steve was on the edge of losing his shit all week, trying to contain all his rage and not loose it onto anyone who asked him the same stupid question everyone had been asking all week. They were grown adults that understood stage manager was synonymous with _babysitter_.

“You know what kind of lawsuit we’d have on our hands if someone tripped on this?” Steve demanded. The PA shook his head and shrunk under his glower. “If anyone else caught this, you’d be fired. Consider yourself lucky it’s just me.” 

Steve rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, muttering to himself. He could be taking the only break he’ll have today, and he’s spending it teaching some intern how rope works. He met Richie’s gaze while pulling the bow knot tight around the coiled cords. 

The PA slunk away with the bundle, muttering, “Thanks, Steve.”

Steve sighed. “Just don’t forget, okay?”

Richie stalked over, hand shaking around a tall mug. Steve had been dealing with his ridiculous attitude and demands all week, completing the most childish requests ( _because there’s something about his silhouette_ ) because it’s his _job_ and unwittingly wearing down to Richie’s vague charm. His material was reductive and stereotypical, but there was something inexplicably charming about him. 

So the last thing Steve expected to see was a smile curl those chapped lips and for _that_ to wobble his knees. “Hey, thanks for not firing that dipshit. He’s a good kid.”

“You’re welcome?” Richie could have anyone on this set fired, including Steve.

Richie sipped from his mug. “And, uh, thanks for all your work this week. You’ve put up with a lot instead of losing your head and I appreciate it. You’re really fucking good at your job and passionate about it, even if you end up running around like a glorified babysitter.”

“Thanks?” Steve hated that everything was coming out a question, but he couldn’t help the complete confusion at this mellowed version of Richie Tozier.

“So, I was wondering if I could get your help with something. My girlfriend wants to come on set for lunch, is that cool?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Steve nodded, then rattled through a list of logistics in his brain. “What’s her name? When is she getting here? Does she have any dietary restrictions? We can validate her parking, I can talk to the caterers--”

“Well, she has kind of the opposite problem of dietary restrictions? Like, she eats everything. She’ll clean off the whole table. She _will_ have to be moved around set via forklift because of her massive size and her name is, ah, Mrs. Covall.”

Steve could smack that mug out of Richie’s hand. “Are you seriously going to waste what little time I have to eat today on a ‘ _your mom_ ’ joke?” Richie’s humor was childish, but this was so far outside of the material that Steve had learned over the last week that he was startled into a laughing fit. Richie watched him, a smile crinking the edges of his eyes, a faint tremble in his chin. 

Something about it seemed familiar, practiced… like Richie had been looking for him.

Steve believed it. They worked well together. Richie gave him shit, and Steve took a little. Steve gave him shit, Richie took more. They were buddies. Steve was twenty-seven when they met on that set, and something settled in his chest when Richie squeezed his shoulder goodbye. 

A year later, Steve was in Toronto and Richie called him from LA with a ridiculous request:

“I want you to be my agent.” And so for the next five years, Steve did everything Richie asked. Turns out, he was _really fucking good_ at it. He tried not to feel weird about the fact that Richie made one phone call and Steve had gotten a position as his agent with no previous experience. Then he started getting other clients and more projects and thought, _I love working as an artistic mediator and protecting the interests of my talents_ and then _I love doing that for Richie_ and then _I love_ \--

It wasn’t, really, the way they fell together. Steve knew horoscopes were bullshit and didn’t give destiny any credit. But when Richie looked at Steve to _fix_ things and like Steve could fill this hole in his heart, Steve thought, _There’s something I could be good at_.

“Are you okay, Rich?” Steve finally asked. _This isn’t about you_ , and he washed himself out of it. Easier that way. Richie swallowed like he didn’t know the answer. His hands tensed, wishing to wring themselves out and he choked on some words before giving up entirely. 

“I feel…” Richie struggled, fists falling on the stiff mattress. “You don’t even know, man.”

“Hey, hey, hey. Try me.” Steve caught his hand and squeezed. “You know I only want you to be happy, right? And safe? I just want you taken care of.” The words were hard to come by. “We’re going to get through this together, whatever that means. If that means I’m your friend or your agent or your… partner, whatever, all of it. I just want you okay.”

“How did you find me?” Richie asked, and Steve wondered if this was fate. If maybe this was the last rough patch and he was about to find out he and Richie were really meant for each other, for forever.

“I tracked your phone, duh.” 

Richie glanced where it sat on his nightstand like it didn't occur to him that he even _had_ a phone. “Right. Technology is a nightmare. Being off my phone these few days has been so good for me. I’m just so much more open and free, baby. I’m not joking, I’m not even high. Steve, I’m not on drugs. I know you all--everyone jokes about it, but I’m not, okay?”

“Okay, Rich, yeah. Whatever you say.”

“No, seriously, it isn’t funny, it’s not-- _hhhnnnngh_.” His knuckles dug into his forehead, searching for one thought. “I don’t even take sleeping pills. I tried, I know they help you, it just made it worse for me so I stopped. It’s totally Bill. I’m not the one who wrote an entire novel in a coke-fueled haze. Why don’t you take me seriously, Steve?”

“It’s hard to take you seriously when you don’t take anything seriously.” 

“That’s. Okay, yeah, fair.” Richie dragged his hand across his face. The hospital gown was tight against his broad shoulders, and Steve couldn’t help being drawn to his big arms. “Mmh. What are you looking at, freak of the week?”

“Your arms,” he replied.

“You gonna jump my broken bones?”

“If you’d let me,” Steve said, surprising them both.

“Huh.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You think we’re good for each other, Steve?”

Steve bit his lip. “I’m willing if you are, Rich.”

“I think fucking in a hospital might get you kicked out, dude--”

“No, you idiot--”

“No, no, I know, I was joking, shouldn’t have--sorry. It’s not totally my fault, I’mkindahighrightnowmaybe.” But he was laughing, and it brought tears like gems in the corner of his big blue eyes. “You’re right. I need to take things more seriously. Like this.” He gestured between the two of them. “And that’s why I need to say this.”

Steve had been living on pure impulse for a rough twenty-four hours and let that instinct take over, shooting up from his chair to kiss Richie. His other hand cupped Richie’s sallow cheek, gently stroking the overgrowth of stubble. Richie made a small noise, rumbling in the back of his throat and settling warmly in Steve’s gut. He moved languid and slow, but intense, pouring everything he had for Richie into their embrace. Richie took deep, heaving breaths and Steve deepened the kiss, tilting Richie’s head back to let his mouth fall slack open to welcome him.

“Steve,” he mumbled, and his eyes fluttered open just to see Richie’s hand curl into his blazer, like it couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. 

“Got you, Rich, I got you,” he mouthed feverishly at his chapped lips, pressing light and precious across his bearded jaw, exhaling against his ear. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” And Richie’s hand moved to his shoulder, squeezing Steve closer.

The angle had him leaning awkwardly over the hospital bed but neither of them minded. Richie was slow but responsive, letting Steve take the lead. His hand moved from Richie’s face to his neck, his shoulder, to tenderly cup his bruised waist. “Fuck,” Richie hissed in pain and they parted, quick, but he didn’t dart around looking for unseen eyes. He stared Steve down, pale and flushed and in some state that squeezed Steve’s heart tight in his hand. He wanted to pin Richie down. He wanted to whisk him away from this terrible place. He wanted to hold him. He wanted to be held. He wanted them.

He wanted Richie. 

“I’m sorry, you’re hurt, and I--yeah,” Steve hurried, deflating himself instantly. “We can talk about this later. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, you… _I’m_ sorry.” A knock at the door startled them both and Richie’s eyes were alight. He propped himself up against the pillows and spread his arms open in welcome. “Molly Ringwald,” Richie breathed. _Oh god, he needs to be sedated_ , Steve thought. But when he turned, he _did_ see a striking redheaded woman peering in through the doorway, hair curled over her shoulders just so. She looked exhausted, but broke into a wide grin that parted clouds and woke the sun.

“It’s past your bedtime,” she said. 

“Aww, _please_ , Bev?” More people crowded behind her and Steve listened to their conversation, floating in the room and filling his head like _Thank goodness they haven’t kicked us out yet_ and _Wait until_ he _gets here_ and _Mr. Tozier is with his husband right now_ and shit Richie _definitely_ heard that one. Bev looked sharply at Steve, like all she needed was a second to dissect him. Then, back to Richie, something of a torn smile, amused at great tragic cost. Two other friends shuffled in, and Steve picked up on the haggard state Elle described. They obviously hadn’t slept and their clean clothes were ruffled and stale. 

“You’re my what?” Richie asked Steve. “I thought I imagined her saying that earlier.” 

_Damage control_ . Steve was still holding his hand. Should he let go? They’d just been making out. Richie seemed hesitant, but it was something beyond _fear_ of being seen. “I didn’t mean to--it just--”

“ _Came out_?” Richie chuckled. 

“Sorry we’re late, we were celebrating hanging out without you,” A man at the door drawled, shrugging his cardigan off as he entered the room. He wasn’t looking at Steve but he could still _feel_ pressure exerting the distance between them, standing post at the end of Richie’s bed and patting his exposed ankle. 

“Aw, Stan, you softy,” Richie beamed. Stan, someone Richie believed to have died. His hand was shaking, but he still hadn’t moved it away from Steve. He wiggled his toes instead. “Wanna give these some attention while you’re down there?”

Stan sighed, a smile struggling onto his thin face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you encourage his behavior,” piped up an _absurdly_ attractive man in an open denim shirt. Richie winked discreetly at Steve and _laughed_ and what fucking universe is Steve in, to see Richie see him checking someone out and joke about it instead of having a panic attack? This was not the same man who left Steve in a hotel restaurant to finish dinner by himself because _Glee_ playing on one of the TVs was _too much for him_. 

“Is it encouraging if I just stand to the side and watch what happens?” Stan hummed. 

“Not encouraging, _enabling_ , and Ben’s right. You’re just as bad as Richie,” Bev reasoned, and Ben beamed at her. 

Richie remained calm while Steve held his hand. In front of these people who seemed to know each other very well, light conversation and silence filled with the gentle physical intimacy of close friends. Their attention fell to Steve all at the same time and before Steve could take back his hand to introduce himself, Richie blurted, “I’m gay.”

The heart monitor beeped faster and faster, filling the silence. 

“What?” Steve’s voice strained.

“Dude, you should be the _least_ surprised,” Richie pointed out. He continued to the group, “I don’t know if it’s the pain meds or the inevitably of my own demise or my newfound courage or the fact that I flame brighter than _January embers_ \--” And here Ben choked, “--but I’m gay. I’m sure none of us are straight but I said it first, so I win. So… there.”

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP--

And Steve was sure Richie was going into shock but then Stan moved to embrace Richie. His hands came gently behind his shoulders, leaning in so Richie didn’t have to do the work. Richie let go of Steve’s hand so he could squeeze back--his fingertips were cold. Stan clapped a hand to Richie’s cheek and kissed his forehead, a quiet, unmistakable pride shining through his dark eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered and Richie hiccuped. 

Then they were all crowding him and tousling his hair and painting him with praise and Steve was right there, but it washed past him. It was for a tender, shy Richie that spoke the words Steve had longed to hear him speak for years. Not just for _them_ , but for himself. Now a strange mix of pride and jealousy bled through his ribs, dripping down to his stomach like some foul acid.

“Where are the others?” Richie asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

Ben said, “Mike had some stuff to tie up at the library with Bill.”

Somehow, sitting beside Richie didn’t feel right, but he felt stubborn against giving it up to one of these strangers. _Strangers_ , people Richie never spoke of before Derry, before he mentioned his high school reunion over that inane voicemail. So he puffed himself up importantly to face them. He had to prove himself to these people who opened Richie up the way Steve failed to do. 

“Cool. Hey guys, this is Steve,” Richie introduced belatedly. “My agent manager person. Steve, this is Bev, Ben and Stan. Three of my six best friends.”

“Is he--?” Bev questioned Richie.

“Uh.” He lowered his voice. “Steve are we, like, what are we doing? Where are we at?”

“Where are we at?” Steve repeated incredulously. “Tell me why you’re in the hospital. Start there.”

“Well. First, it was totally self defense,” Richie said. “He was gonna kill Mike so I just grabbed the axe and swung, it was crazy. It felt kinda good? Not killing him, but like, he was a complete nutcase _and_ a homophobe and I’m not sorry he’s dead. But I’m sorry I killed him. I threw up.”

The words shocked him and Steve couldn’t help but exclaim, “Wait, I thought a house fell on you--you _killed someone_?” 

Richie swallowed. “Oh, that. Well, I did. After the whole Bowers thing. It sounds bad but--”

“What happened to you, Rich?” Steve spoke softly but he felt on the verge of some precipice again, and Richie would be the one to throw him in. Everything would unleash, flooding the canyon, drowning weeds and wildlife, carving cavernous paths and wetting down sandstone. He paced, trying to release this energy without hurting anyone, burning holes into hospital tile.

Richie fidgeted with his glasses, something nervous and childish. “I remembered.”

And it came out rushed and hurt, but Steve couldn’t help saying, “I can’t believe you killed someone who wasn’t yourself. Fucking incredible, really.”

“Lay off,” Stan was clipped and severe. 

And Steve was keenly aware of Richie’s friends staring at him, like they knew some other secret, and barely had the decency to keep their mouths shut in front of Richie. They were like a bunch of middle schoolers. Steve counted backwards from ten and brought himself back to earth, breathing out slow to calm himself. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

“It’s okay,” Richie lied.

For a moment they had been united, glorious, mouths melding together and bodies humming in perfect harmony. And now they were back where they started. Where they were supposed to be. He was far too hopeful for his own good.

Steve needed a cigarette. 

“Good thing I’m here,” Steve finally said. He had a job to do, after all. “Rich, the usual: if anyone asks, no comment. I’ll go tie this up.”

“Steve, you can stay for a bit,” Richie said. 

“No, actually, I’d rather get this done.” His voice was strained, but instead of coming across angry, it was wounded. If only to assert himself, “I’m good at my job, Rich, and that’s what I’m here to do. My job. You call me if you need anything.” He softened for Richie, a moment, and then steeled himself against the rest of Richie’s friends. “Thank you for taking care of him.” 

What Steve couldn’t get was the way Richie interacted with his friends. Friends Steve never knew about. They were impossibly close, their relationships to each other some defined, important thing that lacked definition. Steve was never afforded that kind of attention. He had gotten past expecting Richie to provide it for him, but it still irked him. He begged Richie to validate their relationship for years and now, without prompting, Richie could just _come out_. Like he never could with Steve. For Steve.

He turned on his heel and left without another word. He returned a few hours later and the sun had begun to rise, having met with the authorities and smoothed things over with precision. He met Bev at the front doors. She offered Steve a cigarette without a word. Steve couldn’t summon the courage to go to Richie’s room just yet so he accepted, He stared at the dimming lamp posts, mulling over Richie’s words. Steve only understood a sliver of what happened, the truth adapted into something palatable and enough of it was crazy enough to be true.

He received a call from one of Richie’s friends, Mike, who explained the situation further. Steve bet Richie had given them his number the instant he left. That’s how he found out that a man named Henry Bowers was killed in the Derry library, by Richie, who was saving his friend’s life. Someone who had harassed and tried to kill Richie and his friends in their youth, and was finally imprisoned after killing his father, only to escape almost thirty years later to enact revenge. Child murders and disappearances, gruesome happenings that Mike offered to elaborate on.

Steve thanked him and hung up, feeling distinctly sick. 

What upset Steve worse than that was the way Richie interacted with his friends. Friends Steve never knew about. They were impossibly close, their relationships to each other some defined, important thing that lacked definition. Steve was never afforded that kind of attention. He had gotten past expecting Richie to provide it for him, but it still irked him.

Like it was so easy for him. Like now that he remembered them, he had to forget Steve.

“Thank you,” Steve said in the morning air. “Seriously. Thanks for dealing with him. He’s a handful and a half.”

“He’s not,” Bev said steadily, flicking ash over her heel. “But you’re welcome.”

Steve sighed. He was never going to get on the right foot with these people. “It’s like you guys speak your own language. I don’t understand it.” Bev chuckled quietly. “Before a few days ago, Richie didn’t have a childhood to speak of. Now he’s being taken care of by people he’s never mentioned that he’s very close to. It’s a little upsetting.”

“Yeah.” Bev inhaled. “We’re an odd bunch.”

“You can say that again.” 

Another long silence passed, more comfortable this time. “Are you Richie’s boyfriend?”

Without wanting to betray Richie’s trust, “You’d have to ask him.”

“I saw you two.” 

“Well, neither of us were in the best headspace. I’m sure he’ll regret it later.”

Bev cocked her head, curious and sympathetic. “I’m sure he won’t.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong.” His hand shook when he took his next drag. “It’s that guy he was talking about, isn't it. Eddie Kaspbrak. First thing when he woke up. Called me Eds.”

“He hasn’t crossed any boundaries,” she defended.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve said. “I’m not one of you, so.” He crushed his cigarette under his heel, wishing he could stamp it out of existence, this conversation, this hospital parking lot, this entire town. 

“Richie isn’t trying to jerk you around,” Bev promised.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve repeated. “He clearly doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Her lips pressed together, firm, searching for reassurance. Steve didn’t want it, but he still waited, listened. Something about Bev calmed him. Or maybe he was too exhausted to take his anger out on Richie anymore. 

“A lot has happened in the last few days. And a lot of it out of our control. I know Richie cares about you. But you’ve been there. You know he hasn’t exactly been thriving. This is a step in the right direction.”

A step away from Richie’s old life and everything that came with it. Including Steve. “Almost getting buried alive and killing a serial killer will change you, I guess,” he shrugged.

Bev huffed. “Yeah. That.” She fished keys out of her purse and handed them to Steve. “Go get some sleep. My room’s at the Derry Inn, right on your way into town. I won’t be back for a while.” And Steve wanted to throw the keys back in her face, resolutely stay at Richie’s side, but he couldn’t see him right now. And wondered if he could even face the rest of his friends. Whoever this _Eddie_ is, the first name on Richie’s lips, the first thought when he awoke.

Bev was giving him an out, sparing Steve the embarrassment, sparing Richie the pain of having to deal with him. 

He gave hollow thanks and sat in his car watching the horizon for a while longer, the keys heavy in his pocket. Finally, another car pulled into the parking lot. The sun had risen fully, and three people clambered out, racing to Bev. She greeted them with open arms, leading them limping to the hospital. Steve stared at the back of their heads--a short man with dark hair and eyes, animated, explosive, first to reach the doors.

Steve drove away.

**Author's Note:**

> hey so i have basically adopted steve for the purposes of this story and am using him to explore other canon aspects through a different lens. its absurdly self indulgent. 
> 
> i haven't read the books, this is literally me thirsting for the 2010 script and that one scene with steve and richie when he throws up. plus book canon where richie works with a guy that looks and acts like eddie. and the casting of jason fuchs and james ransone just... look. as if myra/eddie's mom double cast wasn't ENOUGH for andy! *chef's kiss*
> 
> combining aspects of the 2010 script and richie's intense internalized homophobia and repression creates a really interesting relationship between richie and steve. it's more complex than one of them being the bad guy, because that isn't realistic. i hope that comes across. i also find it interesting to see how the losers handle the 27 years of their life, what they write off and what they decide to keep, because there is a selfishness perceived by outside parties that that's very compelling (not that it isn't earned, especially in cases of Bev and Eddie, but more the idea jarring everyone they affect in their lives.
> 
> thanks for reading, lemme know what you think!


End file.
